


Ran My Mouth Off (A Bit Too Much)

by arthur_pendragon



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Bottom Arthur Pendragon (Merlin), Canon Era, Dirty Talk, Intercrural Sex, M/M, Mutual Pining, Oblivious Merlin, Public Blow Jobs, Public Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-21
Updated: 2018-07-21
Packaged: 2019-06-13 20:37:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15372840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arthur_pendragon/pseuds/arthur_pendragon
Summary: Gaius has long since gone to bed, and Merlin doesn’t fancy the thought of telling him the next day that he sucked Arthur off and fucked him in front of the five kings of Albion to stave off war with the Saxons.(because only life-or-death situations can make these two face their feelings.)





	Ran My Mouth Off (A Bit Too Much)

**Author's Note:**

> for [this amazing kink meme prompt](https://kinksofcamelot.livejournal.com/1806.html?thread=373262#t373262)! I'm sorry I didn't quite stick to it ^^;
> 
> Please enjoy, and do let me know what you thought!
> 
> If this fic is any good, it's all thanks to schweet_heart, who beta-read it for me <3
> 
> any remaining mistakes are mine.

Merlin carefully gathers all of Arthur’s muddy armour into his arms with a wince for his poor tunic sleeves, and makes his way to the water tap behind the castle kitchens. The cooks look the other way for him, have done since Merlin — well, Gaius, really — saved the life of an ailing kitchen boy, and let him wash off the mud there that other squires and servants have to scrape and oil off in their quarters. Arthur hasn’t been any more careful with his panoply since they got wind of the veritable delegation making its way to Camelot, and now more than ever Merlin needs to keep him looking tip-top or risk a sojourn in the stocks — or worse, given the king’s mood these days.

“Hullo, Merlin,” one of the scullery maids greets him as he nears the tap, clearing a little space beside the heap of unwashed utensils for him to set the armour down on. “Doin’ okay?”

“Yeah,” Merlin pants. How does Arthur prance about in metal _this_ heavy day after day without collapsing straight after? He makes it seem effortless, the way he lifts his weapons and slices through the air again and again and again, until his knights and some of the overeager squires have the movement down pat.

Not that he’d tell Arthur this; Arthur makes a show of disregarding Merlin’s opinion of him, but whenever Merlin says something as insignificant as _you weren’t half as awful to the servants as you usually are_ , he also makes it a point to prove Merlin wrong. And anyway, Arthur’s head is humongous enough without praise from _Merlin_ inflating it further.

Merlin and the scullery maid do their duty in silence. Merlin is exhausted, just like the maid must be, and just wants to rush up to the warmth of Arthur’s chambers, where he can while away the afternoon polishing the panoply and, if Arthur isn’t around, maybe kip on the carpet for a bit.

Uther and the rest of the noblemen have been running the servants ragged, scrubbing the castle top to bottom, beating the thousand tapestries hanging on the walls, preparing fresh silk and linen for all the guest rooms and ensuring each one houses a small treasure’s worth of scented candles, flowers, and gold bibelots: the kind of things Merlin had never had the privilege of laying eyes on before he came to Camelot.

If rumours (Arthur’s evening whinge sessions) are to be believed, the reason all the kingdoms are suddenly descending upon them at once is not, as Uther has proclaimed officially, for a celebration of Morgana’s birthday, but because the threat of the Saxons is looming over their heads, and Uther needs to be certain that no other kingdom might aid them in a possible invasion attempt on Camelot. For that reason, everything had to be impeccable, from the wicks of the candles to the gleam of the rafters.

The last of the mud in the rings of Arthur’s mail dissolves under the combined effort of the maid slaving away at the pump and Merlin’s bruised fingertips. Merlin groans in relief and thanks the maid effusively before gathering the dripping metal again.

“I’d been hoping you’d run away,” Arthur says just as Merlin stumbles into the room. Merlin drops the armour onto the carpet in front of the fireplace in revenge and whirls around to face Arthur, who’s sitting at his desk looking bored out of his mind.

“Then you’d have an excuse to run away, too?” Merlin guesses. From Arthur’s wry smirk, he’s correct.

“Bring me lunch,” Arthur commands with a wave of his hand. “I’m starving.”

Merlin sighs. “I need to take care of your armour. It’s wet, and it’ll start to rust if I don’t wipe it down right now.”

Arthur glares. Merlin shrugs.

“Well, _Mer_ lin,” Arthur snaps, “would you do your prince the great favour of getting someone to bring him his lunch, then?”

“With pleasure.” Merlin sends a self-satisfied smile Arthur’s way and pops his head out the door in the hope of snagging a convenient servant to do his job. He succeeds and withdraws into the room again, collecting a dry cloth, a rag, and a jar of paraffin on his way to the fireplace.

“Light the fire, too, won’t you,” Arthur drawls.

“’Course.”

Merlin fiddles about with the flint and fire-steel for a minute before blocking the grate from Arthur’s view and whispering a spell. A small fire starts up, and Merlin settles in for an afternoon of armour maintenance.

Arthur yawns loudly. It doesn’t help Merlin, who involuntarily yawns after him.

“Drill was agony today,” Arthur says. Merlin sneaks a glance at him; Arthur, in only his everyday tunic and trousers, is reclining in his chair with his eyes closed. Merlin envies him that luxury, though he’d rather clean the castle all day than step into Arthur’s shoes.

“Yeah?” he says, dipping the rag in the molten paraffin.

“Bedivere nearly lopped Caradoc’s head off, and Kay and Geraint got into it over a bloody quiver of all things.”

“Can’t’ve helped the king’s temper,” Merlin says, grimacing.

“Oh, lord, don’t start,” Arthur groans. “He sat me and Morgana down and talked for two _hours_ about the need to impress our guests. Two hours! Morgana was nodding off by the end of it, and then Father shouted at us for that, too.”

Merlin snorts; Arthur complaining about his father is a rarity he always enjoys.

“Well, I say _talk_ , but it was more a two-hour warning to be on our best behaviour _or else_.” Arthur rolls his eyes tiredly.

A knock on the door heralds the arrival of Arthur’s repast. Merlin stays quiet and keeps his head down as a maid lays down a full tray of food in front of the prince, who thanks her shortly and sends her on her way.

When Merlin looks up from the vambrace he’s currently waxing, Arthur is digging into a plate of chicken with relish. Merlin’s stomach rumbles at the same moment.

“I fear I might be speaking out of turn,” he says slowly, ignoring Arthur’s cocked _is there ever a time you_ don’t _speak out of turn?_ eyebrow. “But I’ve never seen Uther this on edge.”

“Nnrrf,” Arthur replies, before washing down the chicken with some ale and clarifying, “Neither have I. I don’t understand it — oi, don’t look so unsurprised. We’ve got signed treaties with all of them.”

Merlin nods in commiseration and picks up the largest metal plate in the panoply, listening idly to Arthur yammering on about something or other. He scrubs away at the plate, up and down, up and down — Arthur’s yawning into his plate now — side to side, now in circles, now all over again, catch the corners, wipe underneath…

…and wakes up to find Arthur grinning smugly, standing over him with his hands on his hips.

“What a lazy servant I have,” he says. Merlin blearily looks around. He’s still in front of the fireplace, surrounded by bits and pieces of Arthur’s armour, Arthur’s chainmail a hard pillow under his head. Strangely, a sweaty, smelly undershirt covers him from chest to knee, somehow acting as a warm blanket over him.

Arthur nudges Merlin’s foot with his. “Get up.”

“But it’s comfortable here,” Merlin protests before his brain can catch up with his mouth. Arthur barks out a laugh. He’d changed by himself while Merlin was apparently snoring away. “Where’d this come from?” Merlin asks, bunching the shirt in his fist. It’s Arthur’s. Merlin remembers pulling it over Arthur’s head this morning.

“You need to launder it,” Arthur says, kicking at Merlin’s feet one more time. Merlin reluctantly sits up. The back of his head feels like someone branded a grate into it. He rubs it with a wince as Arthur huffs and pulls him up.

“Do something about the armour and then attend me at dinner,” he says, then leaves the room without a backward glance. Merlin groans, feeling guilty even as he does it. He has no real cause to complain as far as the princely prat is concerned; any other master would have sent Merlin packing or had him flogged at the very least (he’s had a couple of jealous servants snidely remind him of this multiple times). Arthur usually just sighs or pulls a face or comments with resignation on Merlin’s inefficiency. It’s… quite kind of him, really. Good lord, did he just call Arthur kind?

Merlin takes his time putting away the armour for tomorrow (mustn’t dent anything!) but is remarkably fast getting to dinner — the thought of facing Uther’s ire is terrifying enough to quicken his footsteps.

* * *

 

All in all, about five other kings and their queens, heirs, and diplomats descend on the citadel the following week, entourage after entourage pouring into the courtyard. Each time, Uther, Arthur, Morgana and every courtier on Uther’s council stand upon the steps to the large double doors, flanked by knights in their brilliant red cloaks and presenting a magnificent scene for their visitors.

Each time, Merlin has been unable to stand by Arthur’s side, though Arthur requests it (commands it, obviously); Uther’s blind agitation has manifested itself in unreasonable punishments for his son’s servant, who is responsible for seemingly everything from a small fire in the kitchens to a courtier spilling ale on himself. Merlin’s probably spent more time in the stocks this week than he has in the entire two years before it.

It doesn’t help that Arthur’s grown frustrated with him, too. Merlin rationally knows it’s not his own fault — Uther really _is_ getting to everyone, heightening the tension and ill humour to unbearable levels in the castle until everyone’s walking around with their heart in their throat — but he can’t help but snap back whenever Arthur remarks cuttingly on his clothes or his ears or his intelligence. All of which means that, when he’s not in the stocks, he’s in the stables scraping horse dung off the ground or replacing the hay in each stall or brushing horse manes and tails, feeling his will to live sapping day after day.

The strain on everyone in the castle eases slightly over the next two weeks as hunting trips and balls and banquets intersperse the lengthy negotiations, debates, and occasional shouting matches in the throne room that resound across the castle and send everybody’s pulses ratcheting up for precious moments. The pretence of it being all for Morgana’s birthday has been wholly tossed aside and forgotten.

(It doesn’t help that Arthur almost always collapses into his bed at the end of the day, too exhausted to snipe at Merlin anymore.

“How was your day?” Merlin had tried once, tugging Arthur’s boots off and trying to undo the laces on his shirt as Arthur lies still in his bed, eerily like the dead. He isn’t allowed to accompany Arthur anywhere, kept back by one sharp look from Uther and a mountain of laundry and utensils.

“Godawful,” Arthur had answered, and he’d looked so miserable that Merlin hadn’t had the heart to ask again.)

* * *

 

But finally the last night of the visit arrives, and for Merlin, the palpable relief on Arthur’s face is worth the hardship he’s undergone for the past few weeks.

“Just one last banquet,” Arthur says, actually _smiling_ , standing straight as Merlin dresses him in a dark, royal blue doublet that makes his brilliant blue eyes stand out and his hair gleam more golden than ever. Merlin nods jerkily, unwilling to speak lest Arthur’s good mood turn out to be unfortunately ephemeral.

He fetches Arthur’s most intricate circlet, the one he groans endlessly about having to wear — _I’m not a princess_ — from the box in his wardrobe, and as he turns back around, he catches sight of Arthur’s face —

“What’s the matter?” he says, despite himself.

“Oh, nothing,” Arthur says airily, troubled expression vanishing in moments. “It’s a pity you haven’t _actually_ gone mute.”

“Sod off,” Merlin mutters. Arthur snorts. He has no qualms dragging Merlin down to the banquet hall by his ear, and if doing that makes him smile, Merlin can’t help but protest loudly to make him smile even more.

* * *

 

Even Uther seems to be at ease tonight, judging by the lack of grooves between his eyebrows. Merlin is extra careful with his duties as well; if he makes the tiniest mistake it reflects on Arthur, and Uther’s been running Arthur ragged enough without Merlin making things worse for him. It’s as if Uther doesn’t view Arthur as his son anymore, just a piece of crown prince bait to use in his haggling. Merlin almost ( _almost_ ) pities his master.

Arthur is seated next to one of their visitors, a prince he’s apparently known since childhood. He is much older than Arthur, but he greets Arthur cordially enough. Arthur’s response is just as polite; Merlin gets the impression he doesn’t quite care for the prince. The seat on the other side of Arthur is empty as a mark of respect for Gaius, who is attending to one of Uther’s aides in his chambers.

Arthur’s guest, Prince Jolis of… someplace or other (Merlin isn’t the best at paying attention when Arthur has outrageous things like a face and hair and a shirt that falls open at the neck), is a fair-haired, blue-eyed man, much like Arthur in his demeanour, but there’s a malicious, cruel twist to his smile that Arthur lacks. It reminds Merlin of those nobles in Uther’s court who rejoice in their peers’ misery, the kind that stir up trouble for the hell of it and simper behind their palms, just _because_.

Apparently Arthur sees the same in Jolis — his eyes never light up with genuine interest in Jolis’s conversation once.

Merlin is repeatedly called forward to refill both their goblets and clear away plates — and naturally, unfortunately, the visiting prince’s attention lands on him after the third goblet.

“And who are you?” he asks of Merlin, looking straight at Arthur to gauge his reaction, feeling for chinks in his armour. Merlin bows the correct depth and responds,

“Merlin, Your Highness. I am Prince Arthur’s manservant.”

“I don’t think I’ve seen you once in these two weeks, Merlin.”

“Indeed, sire. I have been assisting the castle retinue, as per the command of my master and the king.”

(Arthur claimed his order for Merlin to stay back was because one wayward, foolish grin from him would jeopardise everything Camelot was working towards, but Merlin suspects it was Arthur’s roundabout way of ensuring Merlin some respite from the torments of diplomacy. He would appreciate Arthur for it, but Arthur would only wave it off as a figment of Merlin’s admittedly fanciful imagination.)

“He’s pretty — quite maidenlike in his appearance,” Jolis says to Arthur. “I don’t doubt you’ve made use of him already, eh, Arthur?”

“What do you mean?” Arthur asks, but Merlin thinks he knows — his fingers have tightened around the neck of his goblet. The back of Merlin’s neck flares up as he understands Jolis’s meaning soon after.

“Your reputation for tupping your castle servants has made its way across the borders,” the prince says quietly, a disgusting smirk on his face. Merlin’s already-low opinion of Jolis drops further; he hopes Jolis is inebriated, though even then there’s no excuse for what he’s saying. Arthur ought to be quite sober himself, having developed Uther’s absolute control over spirits at the age of thirteen.

“I’m sure I have no idea what you’re talking about, Jolis,” Arthur says, turning away from him and beckoning Merlin to tip a fourth refill into their chalices. Merlin hurries to him, and flinches when Jolis’s wandering fingers stroke his chin. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Arthur go still.

Arthur has never stood for his knights or any of the more lecherous members of Uther’s court harassing servants, though up until now it’s always been maids or especially darling stable-boys he’s shielded from them, not — not someone like _Merlin_ , for goodness’ sake. So bedding servants, bedding Merlin is out of the question; Merlin’s cheeks heat up just at the thought of Arthur pinning him against a wall, silently staring at him through half-lidded eyes the way he looks at princesses Uther wants him to impress…

“Beautiful,” Jolis murmurs, still smiling. Merlin jolts back to reality, skin crawling as Jolis traces a tendon down his neck. He mustn’t retort, he mustn’t do anything to fuck this dinner up for Arthur. “You’re really telling me you haven’t bent this one over your table?”

Merlin inhales shakily.

This can’t be happening. By this time, he would normally have straightened up and said something suitably biting to Jolis, and Arthur would’ve threatened him with the stocks then laughed about the incident in private, but Uther’s gaze is resting on them just then — is a near-tangible brand on his forehead — so he exhales and keeps his mouth shut. Only, only ever for Arthur. Too much rests on this dinner going well: Camelot’s secure future, Arthur’s reliability as a tactful diplomat and suitable heir to the throne, Merlin’s employment.

Arthur sips the contents of his goblet, slow and slower, Jolis’s eyes narrowing with each gulp, but in the end he cannot escape replying. “I haven’t. Here, take this away from me now, I mustn’t drink too much tonight.” He unceremoniously shoves his goblet into Merlin’s stomach, getting him out of Jolis’s way.

Jolis’s grin widens.

Merlin pales, sensing a storm in the offing.

“Oh?” Jolis says, gleeful. “Why not?” His voice is drowned out by the discussions of the kings and the chatter of the rest of the banquet guests, but his expression is message enough for Arthur, whose face goes stony in the space between one breath and the next. “Surely…”

Arthur waits. Merlin waits.

“Your reputation is baseless, it seems. _You’re_ certainly not the one doing the plundering.” Jolis says. He downs all his wine as well, setting the goblet down on the table with extreme satisfaction. He offers no other comment, but Arthur’s white knuckles show he doesn’t need to.

Merlin chokes. The suggestion is clear. And for anyone else in Camelot it would be an unimportant thing; women bedding women, men bedding men is a practice widespread in Camelot, though for Arthur, who ties every minutia of his life to abstractions like dignity and pride and honour, the thought of being taken by Merlin, someone lower than him in almost every sense of the word, must surely be — and this sends pangs through Merlin’s heart — unsavoury.

Arthur breathes out through his nose, now visibly angry at the smirking visitor.

“Don’t,” he says through gritted teeth.

Jolis shrugs, turning to his plate and lazily moving his leftovers around. “I didn’t say anything.”

“You are ingeniously skilled in the art of insinuation, Prince Jolis,” Arthur responds, nostrils flared.

“How kind,” Jolis says. “Regardless, Arthur, if you’ve really not had this boy yet, I would gladly —”

“He’s mine,” Arthur snaps instantly. “ _Mine_.” And then he turns his face away from Merlin, who can’t quite believe his ears or the shivering Arthur’s sudden declaration sets off throughout his body.

Jolis raises his eyebrows and his goblet with a light snort. “Very well,” he murmurs, seemingly giving up on getting a rise out of Arthur any further.

Merlin is Arthur’s friend first and foremost, so under the pretence of returning Arthur’s goblet to its position on the table, he gently squeezes Arthur’s shoulder once, willing his rage to subside. It doesn’t work; Arthur keeps fuming, staring at his plate, breathing hard as a bull. Merlin isn’t the first servant to be propositioned like this, nor will he be the last, and it is in his best interests to take it in stride and keep doing his job — he can take care of himself and he will, should the need arise. But Arthur, who _knows_ this, who browbeats Merlin into learning to fight with his fists and knives, still looks disproportionately angry that Jolis just proclaimed his desire to fuck Merlin. He looks like he wants to close his fingers tight around Jolis’s neck and press down until that disgusting smirk fades forever.

It’s ironic, the way the discord between the two princes is noticed just as it ends.

One of the queens’ handmaidens remarks offhand, quiet but not quietly enough, about the ugly flush on Arthur’s face (as if Arthur could look anything less than resplendent at all times, but what does Merlin know? He’s just in love), and the lazy contentment on Jolis’s mug and suddenly everyone’s tittering and whispering in hushed speculation gusting about the room — disagreement? Flirtation? Are we to attend a _jousting_ match tomorrow?

Arthur wipes his mouth with a napkin and Jolis just takes another swig, but the chatter grows in volume at this nonchalance (Merlin marvels at the unique brand of shamelessness it takes to gossip in front of your topic), until it is suddenly put to death by one of the kings rumbling out of his insensibility and bellowing _duel it out in the open, boys_ , as if the _boys_ are five and were caught tugging on a wooden shield to own and use.

Uther’s blazing, fraught silence after the other king settles back into his stupor spurs Arthur to sit up straight and mumble something about a misunderstanding; Jolis waves a hand to concur but Merlin, the idiot, Merlin forgot to remove his own hand from Arthur’s shoulder and lost track of its location, currently running up and down Arthur’s rigid back, and oh, that riles Uther up like nothing else. Merlin whips his hand off Arthur and steps away, but the damage has been done.

“Servant,” Uther snarls. “How dare you lay a hand on my son so intimately?”

Merlin ducks his head, picking his battles. On the best of days, he faces the threat of execution from the king. Today, though, today the king might charge Merlin with a sword himself, for imperilling what seemingly is a peace maintaining itself only through sheer will. “I’m extremely sorry, Your Majesty.”

“Father, don’t pay _Mer_ lin any mind —” Arthur starts, only to be a quelled by a look from Uther.

Morgana snorts, drawing everyone’s attention to her for the first time that evening. Her dress and maquillage, though elegant, are extremely simple and unassuming (a sure attempt to avoid catching the eye of any desperately unwed dukes or princes on the ultimate day of the visit), but Merlin’s positive that the _minute_ she opens her mouth —

“Honestly, Uther, you act like Arthur and Merlin haven’t been thick as thieves since the day you hired Merlin,” she says, ignoring Arthur’s subtle _shut the fuck up and stop trying to help_ shakes of the head. “What’s the harm in him calming Arthur down after a row?”

Merlin freezes.

“Do go on,” someone says. Merlin can’t turn away from Uther’s thunderous eyes long enough to find out who. “What row?”

Jolis rolls his eyes. “This boy here,” he says, indicating Merlin, who wants to melt into the walls and turn back time. Despite his best attempts, he’s bollocksed things up for Arthur. Again. “I merely wondered if he services his master and whether he could be lent to me for the night, but Arthur reacted quite… horrifically to my innocent question.”

“Horrifically?” Arthur asks, glaring at him. “Surely you’re exaggerating, Jolis.”

“Am I?” Jolis answers, glancing at Arthur out of the corner of his eye but looking straight at Uther and the five kings otherwise. “You looked as if you would wage war with me should I lay a _finger_ on your delectable boy.”

Merlin blushes involuntarily at ‘delectable boy’, but the rest of the court responds very differently to different words. The hush that falls upon the room at the mere mention of war could be shattered by a single intake of breath.

“Arthur!” Uther has an especially rankled mien about him. “What is the meaning of this?”

“Prince Jolis is simply —”

“ _War_ for a servant boy?” One of the queens says. She looks suspiciously similar in appearance to Jolis. Merlin watches dull red bloom over the back of Arthur’s neck. “A servant boy who can’t even mind his station?”

“Merlin is an idiot,” Arthur begins in a placatory tone. Merlin gets the feeling Arthur knows things are out of his hands now. However, Morgana intervenes again.

“At Camelot we treat our servants quite kindly, my lady,” she says. “Merlin is simply the result of the good favour bestowed upon him by our benevolent prince.” She has a cool smile on her face as she speaks, but none in the hall mistake it for genuine enthusiasm for a second.

“No, I cannot allow it. My sincerest apologies to you, King Scarcliffe. Arthur is young yet, and he knows nothing about the handling of the staff or the proper way to address a senior prince.” Uther must really want to avoid war against the Saxons if _he_ was stooping so low so as to grovel before inferior lords. Merlin, who has always regarded Arthur’s father with contempt, barely holds himself back from shouting at the king for throwing his son into the line of fire so gladly.

“Boy,” Uther says, sparing Merlin one cold look. “Let this be a lesson to both you and Arthur to mind your place in the court. In the morning, you shall report to the headsman for forty lashes of the whip, and no less.”

Morgana’s loud, outraged protest is drowned out only by Arthur’s. “Forty lashes? He’ll _die_!”

Merlin blanches. The thought of the whip splitting his skin over and over sets his heart thudding like the thundering hooves of Arthur’s steed, and he grits his teeth, resolving to search through the grimoire for a spell to indurate his back before dawn. This would not be how he died. He would not leave Arthur unprotected, especially not like this.

If only Gaius were here; he would calm Uther down and restore him to an aspect befitting a king instead of someone who would do this — oh, whose leg was Merlin trying to pull, this man had condemned Gwen to death over a mere poultice. Gaius wouldn’t have had the slightest effect on him.

“Then let him die,” Uther declares.

“Oh, surely there’s no need for that,” Jolis says, playing the part of the embarrassed guest perfectly. “Something suited to Arthur’s verbal attack on me should more than suffice to soothe my injured dignity.”

Arthur keeps his mouth shut. So does Morgana. Jolis smiles.

“Perhaps some proof that Arthur readily disciplines his insubordinate servant when it is called for.”

“Very well,” Uther says, looking most displeased with the turn in the proceedings. A beat later: “Boy.”

Merlin jumps to attention with his heart in his throat.

“Get down on your knees and service your lord.”

* * *

 

Merlin stares into Arthur’s eyes, Arthur’s hands a vice-like grip on his shoulders. Arthur is trying to convey something through his gaze, and while Merlin is usually adept at reading him, right now the humiliation crawling over his skin and revealing itself in the tremble of Merlin’s fidgeting hands is too powerful a force of distraction.

He’s probably saying something noble like _I’m sorry, this is unbelievably insane, Jolis is an arsehole beyond compare and I wish there were a way to get you out of this but given the choice between letting you die from a flogging and making you suck my cock_ —

“Merlin.”

Arthur roughly shoves him down. Merlin is on his knees in the space between one second and the next, limbs folding like a marionette’s. He clutches at the fabric of Arthur’s trousers for support, cheeks burning. He wants this. He’s always wanted to please Arthur, to sate his own need to be with Arthur as more than a friend, but not like this. Not like a servant supposed to consider this a _punishment_.

“ _Mer_ lin,” Arthur repeats. Merlin, physically unable to look up at Arthur lest he combust, slowly parts Arthur’s doublet and rucks his shirt up to unlace his trousers. Arthur’s hands hover, as if he doesn’t know whether to help or just stand still. At least he has his back to the rest of the court; a small courtesy.

The laces fall apart after some fiddling, and the trouser cloth sags. Merlin gulps and pushes Arthur’s smalls down.

He’s seen Arthur’s cock before, of course — but never at such close proximity, quiescent and flushed against his gold thatch of hair. He takes a deep breath and gently fondles it, startling a sigh out of Arthur.

Arthur probably hates this. Not only because he must subject himself to this amidst so many people, but also because he’d rather have anyone but Merlin before him. Merlin still can’t look up at him for fear of seeing that revulsion stark on the face of his lord and friend, so he encloses Arthur’s cock in his hand and pumps in rhythm with the soft stroking of his balls.

“Oh,” he hears Arthur whisper, and then feels Arthur’s thumb on his lower lip. Merlin wets his lips in preparation, and if his tongue flicks over Arthur’s salty-sweet skin as well, then it is mere coincidence. Arthur keeps his hand there, the rest of his fingers under Merlin’s jaw as his cock hardens, long and straight in Merlin’s fist.

Merlin isn’t going to be able to fit it all in his mouth, that he knows from a single glance. But he’ll try and make this bearable, good for Arthur. He loves Arthur more than anything, and if this is his only chance to have him, he will make the most of it. Arthur pulses in Merlin’s hand, and a few drops of precome ooze from the tip onto his skin — Merlin leans in and laps at it, unable to resist the temptation. Arthur shudders; even that small movement is gratifying.

Merlin draws the tip of his tongue over the skin between his thumb and forefinger, gathering the last of the precome, before reaching the head of Arthur’s cock. He’s warm, hot, and smooth against Merlin’s mouth. Merlin wonders what view he presents; his gaze flits upwards.

What he sees makes him move forward in desperation, engulfing Arthur as much as he can. He doesn’t think he’ll ever forget it— the sultry heat of Arthur’s eyes, the lips parted in a helpless sigh, the small frown between Arthur’s eyebrows that spoke only of restraint, not displeasure. Arthur is heavy on Merlin’s tongue, heaven in his mouth. Merlin sucks and licks and doesn’t let go.

It’s every lewd fantasy about Arthur’s prick that Merlin’s harboured coalesced into one. It’s a bit hard to lave Arthur the way Merlin yearns to do but still keep track of Arthur’s reactions, and Merlin wishes he could find that balance; he knows he’d find it given the time and the reciprocated love, but since he has neither, he chooses to be selfish and simply worship.

There is a deadly hush in the room as Merlin moans and chokes around Arthur’s cock. Prurient eyes are surely fixed on the two of them, while the remaining members of the court who can pretend to any sort of decency will have returned to their dinner with flaming cheeks. Merlin, meanwhile, holds Arthur at the base and swallows the rest of him with abandon, losing more and more of his embarrassment with every lick of his tongue.

Arthur’s mindlessly stroking Merlin’s face, his cowlicks, the curve of his ear, the wave of hair behind it. Merlin pulls startled gasps and, once, even a whimper out of him whenever he does something Arthur particularly likes, like pulling nearly all the way away and kissing the head, or cradling the silken skin of Arthur’s balls in his gasping mouth. And Merlin doesn’t know how long he has been pleasuring Arthur — he stopped counting the minute Arthur anchored firm, trembling hands in Merlin’s hair and began thrusting quicker into him. Merlin loves him so much.

He probably has since the first time Arthur grinned at him without menace. When Arthur chose to believe him over the word of his superiors and looked at him with the shyness he reserves for the rarest of vulnerable moments.

Merlin would give anything to see Jolis’s face as he realised his plan to humiliate Arthur was backfiring.

“Ngh,” sighs Arthur. Merlin squeezes his left thumb hard in his fist, suppressing his impulse to choke, and lets Arthur in _deep_ , bobbing his head in long, slow sucks, closing his eyes. “Merlin,” Arthur says, and guides Merlin’s other hand under him, making Merlin’s fingers tease his tensing taint and then —

Arthur goes limp as he spends in Merlin’s mouth, quiet and without warning, desperately grasping Merlin’s shoulders. Merlin swallows it all, unpractised but devoted. He stays unmoving until Arthur, soft now, slides out of his mouth, Merlin’s spit and Arthur’s come trailing in an obscene string between them. Shivering, Merlin ducks his head and wills his erection down before he has to stand back up and face his master. He’s so hard it’s dizzying. And this was supposed to be a punishment, he can’t be seen _enjoying_ it —

“Get up, Merlin,” Arthur says weakly. Gentle hands caress Merlin’s hair, his cheeks.

Merlin gets to his feet. His knees ache. He wrings his hands and tries to hide his aroused state, but Arthur knocks his hands out of the way and unties the laces of Merlin’s braies in moments. Merlin frowns, unable to stop him, captured by the wild hope of Arthur’s fingers even marginally brushing against his skin.

“Sire?” he whispers. Uther, he can see out of the corner of his eye, is resolutely looking away. Only Jolis has noticed that the little spectacle he brought about has come to an end, and he is watching them both with narrowed eyes. But Arthur isn’t making any move to draw his trousers back up or collect what little dignity he must have left.

“C’mon,” Arthur murmurs. Only then does he look straight at Merlin — and then he _kisses_ him on the mouth like a lover, swiping his tongue over the wet on Merlin’s lips, tasting his own come. Merlin is paralysed from shock. He stands still as Arthur undoes his neckerchief. What’s happening?

“C’mon, Merlin,” Arthur says again, turning around with the neckerchief strategically in front of his nakedness. With one expedient tug he pulls Merlin flush along his back, arse snug against Merlin’s hardness. Merlin gasps reflexively. No. Surely not. Surely Arthur doesn’t mean to do this.

“Really?” Jolis mutters from beside them. Disgust is evident in the sneer of his mouth. “You’d go this far?”

Merlin doesn’t get to see Arthur’s reaction to that, only hears the clattering of plates and goblets falling to the floor, caused by a swipe of Arthur’s arm. Arthur bends down and rests his elbows on the wood.

“Going to fuck me any time soon, my idiot Merlin?” he says then, and Uther’s head whips around.

“ _Arthur_!”

Morgana is frozen in her seat, as are the other women around the hall. A couple of the kings are drowning in their goblets to avoid the sight of a handsome prince bending over for his servant, and the rest unashamedly stare. Jolis coughs delicately into a napkin and snaps his fingers at another servant for a wine refill.

Merlin hesitates. Arthur glances over his shoulder at him. The trust in his faint, almost mischievous smile spurs Merlin into action.

He runs daring hands over Arthur’s buttocks with bated breath, unable to believe that his wildest dreams are coming true right in front of his eyes. Arthur pushes back into the contact, clearly having lost all sense of shame along with Merlin. Arthur’s skin is smooth, his arse firm yet soft, dusted with gold, and Merlin wants more than anything to claim him here and now; Arthur’s all but offered the same to him. But it’s only so he may humiliate Jolis and Uther; and Merlin, for all that he desires Arthur, can’t do this. To himself, or to his prince. He won’t fuck Arthur when he only wants it as revenge for Jolis’s backhanded play and his father’s blind fear.

He brings Arthur’s thighs closer together and leans over him, resting his forehead on the nape of Arthur’s neck. Arthur stills when Merlin’s arms wind around his waist. The velvet strands of his hair brush against Merlin’s own as he turns his head to bring an ear close.

“I can’t,” Merlin bites out, achingly hard, throbbing with the need to come, to keep touching Arthur in some way. “They’ll behead me in the town square.”

“As if I’d let them.”

“Arthur,” Merlin moans as Arthur’s fidgeting drags Merlin’s opened braies down. “ _Arthur_ ,” he repeats. “Please. Please, please.”

“ _Please_ fuck me,” Arthur responds, and Merlin surrenders.

He has no slick, he has no oil or handy salve, so he merely presses into the cleft of Arthur’s thighs. His leaking cock smooths the way slightly, and it feels like heaven when Arthur shudders and rocks back so that Merlin’s cock slips and slides against Arthur’s balls and his half-hard prick.

For all intents and purposes, Merlin has taken his prince, and his prince is enjoying it like a wanton slut. Dinner has resumed with mortified reluctance around them, with even Jolis snorting and returning to his meal. Merlin slows, his embrace loosening; Arthur jerks backwards on a particularly hard thrust and throws his head back.

“Feeling good?” he murmurs. Merlin nods into Arthur’s back, fisting Arthur’s tunic and biting his lip to keep from crying out loud. It feels so good. If this is the first and last time he can see and have Arthur so intimately, then he won’t regret it. Even though Arthur probably wouldn’t care if it were one of his knights doing this, or even another servant as long as Uther regretted questioning Arthur’s honour at the word of a measly nobleman.

“Have your way with me, love,” Arthur says with a half-laugh. “We need to satisfy our audience, convince them of our repentance.” Merlin acquiesces.

“You feel so good, Arthur,” he whispers, tugging the collar of Arthur’s tunic down to suckle the salty, sweaty skin over his bony spine. “Look at you fucking back onto my cock. Has anyone ever had you like this?”

“Just you. Only you, Merlin.” Arthur holds Merlin’s scarf to his nose and breathes; a show for whomever’s watching. Merlin brings a hand round to Arthur’s arse, flicks a thumb against Arthur’s clenched hole.

“I won’t let go of you, then. You’ll always be mine, since you want me so much,” Merlin lies. Arthur hums. His eyes are probably closed to avoid meeting the gaze of any of their inadvertent voyeurs.

Merlin reaches down to take Arthur’s stiff cock in hand, pumping in time with his thrusts. Arthur’s breath hitches. Some last measure of prudence in Merlin shatters at that, his yearning for Arthur revealing itself to everyone in the best and worst manner, and the filthiest things start dropping from his lips. “Love you so much, Arthur. Wish we had more time. The things I’d do to you, you’d blush. Imagine. A servant tying his prince up, pinning him to his plush, fancy bed and fucking him all day with his fingers, tongue, prick — I’d do you with all sorts of deviant things, Arthur, I’d fuck you with the hilt of your sword and bridle you like a horse — _unh_ , I’d fill you up with my spend and plug you closed so you’d strut around all day remembering how I made you come in my arms, your stupid bumbling idiot Merlin who fucked you and fucked you and loves you so much. I love you. You’re my heart,” Merlin says, and can’t hold back any longer, climaxing with a moan that he muffles in Arthur’s back. Arthur follows with an exhale at the first rush of Merlin’s come between his thighs, and for some moments there is silence.

* * *

 

Well, Jolis and his troublemaking family make no attempt to provoke Arthur or disrupt the treaty after that.

Arthur cleans himself up with Merlin’s neckerchief, gets his outfit together without Merlin’s help (if things haven’t irreparably broken between them, Merlin thinks, he’ll remind Arthur of this minor feat someday), and summarily dismisses him.

“You’re no longer necessary here. Bank the fire in my chambers,” he says. He doesn’t even deign to look at Merlin, staring straight at Uther. “Father, I haven’t any doubt that Merlin has been sufficiently punished for his actions.”

Uther glares. “Indeed he has. However, you and I shall be having words after this dinner.”

“As you please.” And this insouciant disregard of Arthur’s for Uther’s fury after days and weeks of him breaking in its path has Merlin grinning to himself as he sets off towards the door. There’s no going back from showing an entire hall the expression you make when you climax, is there?

Gwen goes red and winks at him when he catches her eye, and Morgana inclines her head in acknowledgement — _well played_ — as he passes her.

Merlin tends to the fire when he reaches Arthur’s bedroom. His hilarity at Arthur’s equanimity dies down with the blaze. Gooseflesh spreads across his back as he thinks about what he and Arthur did, where they did it, and the death by flogging that Merlin had barely escaped.

Gods, he’ll never get to do it again. Uther will probably banish him once Jolis and the rest have vacated the castle.

He lingers for a bit, and then makes his way to Gaius’s infirmary, hoping not to find the physician awake and waiting.

* * *

 

Sleep tantalises him. An hour goes by with Merlin tossing and turning, and another with him restlessly showering his room in tiny sparks that wink out mid-air; his very own fireworks.

Gaius has long since gone to bed, and Merlin doesn’t fancy the thought of telling him the next day that he sucked Arthur off and fucked him in front of the five kings of Albion to stave off war with the Saxons.

He bolts upright when the door creaks open.

“Did I tell you to leave after banking the fire, Merlin?”

It’s Arthur, and the moment after the realisation will forever remain sharp in Merlin’s memory: Arthur in Merlin’s faded blue cloak, standing at the entrance, facing Merlin dappled in moon- and starlight.

“Oh, say something, you dolt.”

Merlin has no words. Arthur sheds the cloak to reveal his state of — exquisite — déshabillé.

“Still nothing?” He carefully shuts the door behind him and crawls into bed next to Merlin, who is still too astonished to do anything but move as Arthur nudges him to the side.

“Confessions of love aren’t exactly filthy talk, Merlin,” Arthur whispers, running an affectionate hand down Merlin’s face and neck, turning onto his side and accidentally bumping their foreheads together. “Aren’t we friends, Merlin? Friends, and yet —and yet you hide your love from me?”

“What love?” Merlin mutters, just to be contrary. It wouldn’t do to give Arthur the upper hand. “I’ve no idea what you’re on about. Get out of my bed.”

“You can’t order your prince around, you know.”

“Arthur, I’m sorry I caused so much trouble for you back at the feast. I tried to stay out of your way for once but that prince and his mum — ”

“Oh, shut up. I got to watch Jolis look like he’d sucked on a lemon, and that’s worth any humiliation I might face in front of my father. Not that feeling you come undone from the privilege of touching me was a humiliation,” Arthur adds, and even though Merlin can barely make his face out in the dark, the smugness just _drips_ from his words.

“You know, since Uther’s going to exile me tomorrow for treason anyway — ” and Merlin abandons his forewarning in favour of jumping Arthur and attempting to shove him over the edge of the bed. Arthur laughs in soft huffs as he fights back, catching Merlin in a headlock and twining their fingers, parting thighs with warm knees, uncaring about flimsy clothes in the way.

Somewhere in their struggle they end up kissing, or perhaps Arthur manoeuvred them into it; he can be sly when he wants to be. Merlin kisses him back with enthusiasm. In light of Arthur’s presence, actions in Merlin's room, his unwillingness to let Jolis lay even his eyes on Merlin takes on a new, thrilling meaning; his defence of Merlin’s honour and his vehement claim — “ _he’s mine_ ” — all lend an intrepid sincerity to Arthur’s boyish kisses.

“You love me, too,” says Merlin with no little glee.

“Slander,” Arthur replies, curling his arms around Merlin and clutching him tightly. “And Father won’t harm a hair on your head. Morgana and I ensured that.” He dips in for a languid kiss full of promise. “Now weren’t you saying something about filling me up with your spend…?”

**Author's Note:**

> <3
> 
> the thumb thing (squeezing it in your fist to control your gag reflex) i read online somewhere, and apparently it actually works. the more you know...


End file.
